“Yeah, well, it’s definitely the last one you’ll pull on my watch.” She turned to pop the lock on the glass-walled cabinet behind her, sending that earthy rosemary scent his way as her hair snapped over her shoulder. “How much do you weigh?”
Okay, couldn’t say he’d been expecting that question. “Two fifty. You want to know if I like moonlit strolls on the beach, too?”
Her scowl didn’t even sway an inch. “You don’t strike me as the type. Do you have any allergies to medication?” She pulled some paper-wrapped squares of gauze from another cabinet and laid them next to her before rummaging through a box on the shelf by her chair.
“No. Why?”
“Well, your tattoos are going to make this interesting, but if worse comes to worst, I can always tap the vein on the top of your hand.”
“Tap the what?” he asked, realization trickling in like ice water.
Teagan lifted a brow and gifted him with an angelic smile that worked its way through his veins in about two seconds flat.
“Don’t worry, Superman. It’s only a prick. But then again, it looks like that’s your specialty.”
Chapter Four
The astringent bite of rubbing alcohol reached Teagan’s nose as she tore into the packet in her hand, and she measured the intricate black tattoo on Adrian’s right forearm with a casual glance. Placing a line was more about feel than anything else, but it didn’t make this a cozy jaunt down Main Street, either. Still, procedure was procedure, and she wasn’t about to tell the docs in the emergency department that she didn’t start an IV en route when she knew damn well they were expecting her to do it. Explaining the shoulder thing was going to be bad enough.
Taking her eyes off a guy like Adrian in the first place had been the highest order of stupid. She wasn’t screwing up his care again.
“So how come you’re sticking me, exactly?”
His much-softened tone snagged her attention, and she adjusted hers to match. “Because you need painkillers on board before we get to Riverside. The doctors there are going to give you a pretty good workup. It’s not going to be fun.”
“I’m okay with the pain,” he said, although the thin sheen of sweat on his brow coupled with his skin’s growing pallor said otherwise.
Teagan shrugged. “You need the IV regardless. Might as well let the meds take the edge off.” She sat on the bench seat at Adrian’s side and flipped his right arm palm-side up, running her fingers down the corded length from elbow to wrist in search of a good spot.
“So what language is this, anyway?” she asked, folding his hand into a fist before tracing the thickly scrolled letters spanning his skin from wrist to elbow. Maybe if she distracted him, he’d let her do her job without complaint.
“Italian.” He didn’t elaborate, but he also didn’t balk as she ripped open the IV kit she’d pulled from the med box.
“Oh. What does it mean?” Teagan tapped the pad of one gloved finger against the vein now standing in relief against his skin right above the words vivere senza rimpianti.
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
The edgy little smile that had caught her so off guard in the middle of the road was back in full force, and it hadn’t lost an ounce of steam in its absence.
Teagan’s cheeks prickled with the unfamiliar sensation of a blush. “Sorry. Little pinch here. Ready?”
He nodded, keeping his smile locked in place. “Whenever you are, Red.”
Right. Because that nickname hadn’t haunted her enough in the third grade. “Just hold still.”
She guided the IV into place with a few deft movements despite the fact her pulse had just taken on all the properties of a freight train. “I’m going to put some Fentanyl in here to ease some of your pain. It works pretty quickly, so you should be able to relax soon.”
“Whatever will get this over with faster.” Adrian looked away, the smile slipping from his face as he shifted his weight against the semi-reclined surface of the cot. It figured he’d go and get all agreeable when they were halfway to the hospital, but truly, Teagan knew better than to complain.
She drew two hundred micrograms of Fentanyl into a syringe and worked it into the IV, doing a visual sweep to make sure all systems were go. “I’m just going to recheck your vitals here and see if we can manage some focus assessment before those pain meds get in the way.”
“Focus assessment sounds like something my high school guidance counselor tried once. Hate to break it to you, but it didn’t work out so well then. Doubt you’ll have much luck with it now.”
Teagan’s laugh popped out before she could swallow it, and she palmed the penlight from her bag. “Don’t worry, it’s not that tough. Look up for me.”
Adrian fastened her with a dead-on stare, and whoa, there was a lot roiling around in those hazel eyes of his. No matter how big and bad, most car accident victims experienced some form of shock or another in the aftermath. Her social skills might not be impeccable—or hell, even good—but it was time to keep this guy as calm as possible.
“So, tell me,” she said, slipping the pulse ox clip over his finger. “What do you do, Adrian?”
His forehead creased, making his surprise a dead giveaway. “I’m a chef.”
Looked like surprise was catching. “And how long have you been a chef?”
“Since the day I was born.”
The laughter pushing past her lips caught her off guard for the second time in as many minutes. “You’ve been busy, then. You must work at the place in the resort.” That tiny tickle of recognition fanned over her again, but as soon as she flicked her attention toward it, it was gone, like smoke in a stiff breeze.
“What makes you say that?” He canted his head to the side, his shoulders seeming to loosen slightly.
Teagan noted his current vitals before continuing with the exam. “Because unless you count the bakery on Main Street, there are only two other full-service places to eat in Pine Mountain, and there isn’t a chef in either one.”
The thought of Lou, the lanky guy who worked his magic at her father’s bar and grill, working up a hoity-toity dish like on those reality shows was downright laughable. Not that Adrian really fit that mold either, but still. He’d been the one to use the c-word, not her.
As if he’d just climbed into her head for an easy look-see, Adrian teased, “Careful making assumptions over there. I ditched the tall white hat as soon as I graduated from culinary school.”
She held up her hands, busted. “Okay. But for the most part, we townies tend to just sling hash and be done with it.” Teagan examined him carefully, and this time the vague recognition darting around in her brain snagged and held. “The restaurant at the resort! You were there last year, when we responded to that call for the other chef. A woman.”
The tumblers and gears of her memory locked into place over the image. They’d been first on scene, and Evan had gone to secure the patient—a nasty facial trauma, if she remembered right. Teagan had been too busy securing the rest of the scene, namely trying to peel Adrian off of Jackson Carter, a local guy she’d known since middle school.
The fight had been short-lived. And Adrian had been boiling-point furious.
“She’s my boss,” Adrian said, dispelling only a touch of the mystery running through her head. “You remember that?”
“Small town. And you have a memorable right hook.”
His eyes flared, in way more panic than irritation. “It wasn’t like that, exactly.” A pause, and it looked like hers weren’t the only gears sliding into place. “Wait, that was you who jumped in the middle of things.”
Teagan nodded, sliding down the bench toward his feet and laying the flat of her hand against the bottom of one monstrous boot. “Securing the scene to administer care is part of the job. Press forward as far as you can.”
He did, and when she prompted, he gave a quick repeat on the other side. “You could get hurt like that, being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
> “Said the guy on the gurney,” she said, unable to bite back a wry smile. “How’s your arm feeling?” Now that she’d had more time for a more focused exam, it was clear the broken arm was likely the only injury he’d sustained, and even that looked pretty straightforward. Lucky bastard.
“Pretty good.” He closed his eyes for a fraction too long to be a blink, and that, coupled with his answer, signaled the Fentanyl was starting to kick in nice and hard.
“Good. We should be at the hospital in another seven minutes, give or take. You can close your eyes if you want.”
Another blink, this one shuttering his eyes just enough to be sexy as hell. “That might not . . . be the best idea.”
Concern splashed through Teagan’s chest, and she leaned forward from her perch on the bench seat at his side. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Relax.” A lazy smile joined his bedroom eyes, sending an entirely different sensation through her chest. “I’m not going to code on you or anything. It’s just, ah, easier to forget about the pain if I’m distracted, that’s all.”
Oh, buddy. If you only knew. “Okay, but consider yourself forewarned. I’m not sure I’m the best person for the job.” Teagan bit her lip over a pause. “Polite conversation isn’t exactly my forte.”
“Polite conversation is for amateurs,” he said. “Tell me something important.”
A streak of shock popped through her veins. “You want me to tell you something personal?” That Fentanyl must be knocking him sideways if he thought she was going to spill her soul.
“Yeah,” Adrian said on nothing more than a rumble. “Personal. What’s your favorite ice-cream flavor?”
More laughter escaped in an unexpected burst, but at least it was a painless question. Poor guy probably was a little loopy from the meds. “Umm, wow. Coffee, I guess.”
“I could see that.” His voice was slow, and it dashed all the way down her spine, lingering only when it reached the lowest point between her hips. Desperate for something clinical to keep her busy, Teagan snatched a few packets of alcohol wipes. She tore one open and leaned in, dabbing methodically at a scrape above Adrian’s eye.
“Ah.” She shook her head, giving the cut a closer look. “You’ve got a pretty nasty lac here. It’s small, but looks kind of deep. I hate to tell you, but you’re probably going to have to lose this piercing to have it stitched up.”
“Great,” he said, although the sarcasm didn’t quite stick. “You can go ahead and take it out, I guess.”
Teagan made quick work of removing the stainless steel barbell, sliding it into a plastic bag before giving voice to the question in her head. “So how about you?”
“How about me what?” He angled the side of his face so it fit tight into the curve of her hand, and she scooped in a shallow breath at the increased contact.
“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?” she murmured, surprised to find herself actually wanting to know.
His eyes went from warm hazel to smoky quartz in the time it took her to exhale, and he dipped his gaze to her mouth.
“Strawberry.”
“And what’s so great about strawberries?” Oh hell. Was that her voice, all breathy and ridiculous?
“They’re perfect.” He curled the fingers of his uninjured hand around hers, pulling her in and reducing the space between them to a mere sliver. With his stare resting right on her lips, he said, “And red.”
Before the word even sank in, Adrian lifted his mouth to hers in a slow stroke. His lips were the exact opposite of the rest of him, soft and accommodating, and Teagan gasped against them. He tasted like cinnamon, spicy and dangerous, and he tightened beneath her like he had every intention of parting her mouth with his own and discovering all of her. Her brain screamed that she should pull back, give him what-for, do something other than just sit there and let him kiss her, but all her good intentions fell prey to one simple fact.
She didn’t want him to stop.
But then, just as quickly as he’d closed the space between them, Adrian pulled away, and the resulting rush of cool air brought Teagan back to earth with a hasty snap.
“Sorry. I . . .” Adrian trailed off, eyes at half-mast. “I’m so tired.”
“Close your eyes.” Thank God she’d at least faked her way back to her normal speaking voice. The sound of it steadied her ever further. “We’ll be at Riverside in a couple of minutes.”
As if on cue, Evan leaned back and aimed his voice into the narrow pass-through, one eye still on the road as he hollered an ETA of ninety seconds. Teagan shucked her gloves and swept up the debris in the rig, double-checking Adrian’s vitals even though her own probably looked like a skyline shot of Mount Everest. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling in smooth rhythm. She’d given him enough Fentanyl to knock out a basketball team, so it really wasn’t a shock that he’d gotten a little goofy. He probably wouldn’t even remember kissing her when his eyes opened up again.
The smartest thing she could do was forget it, too.
“Mr. Holt, my name is Dr. Russell. I’m one of the specialists down here in the emergency department.” The guy crossed the curtained-off area to shake Adrian’s good hand, but thankfully didn’t dive into any more pleasantries. He’d been here for hours as it was, and he’d been itching to leave from the minute he’d been rolled through the door, half-cocked and thinking of summer fruit.
Holy shit, kissing Teagan had been stupid. And hot.
And stupid.
But the cadence of her laughter had been so oddly soothing, he’d been helpless to stop. The rich, velvety sound had covered him like warm honey on fresh-baked bread, sliding over his senses until he could taste it on his lips and under his tongue. Everything had disappeared save the push and pull of the moment, until her lush, red mouth was the only thing on the planet.
Definitely hot.
Dr. Russell cleared his throat and pulled out a stack of X-ray printouts, placing them on the rolling table next to Adrian’s gurney. “Your workup shows you’re clear of any head or neck injuries, and your chest and lungs look fine.” He flipped through the paper copies, referencing the stark, grainy images as he went. “You’re going to feel the bumps and bruises for the next few days, though. A discharge nurse will be in to talk to you about it before you’re released.”
Right, right. It was nothing a little time at work wouldn’t fix. “What about this?” He nodded down at the splint on his arm, which was now throbbing to the beat of a marching band on game day.
“Ah, that. Well, the good news is that your shoulder looks intact on the X-rays. No dislocation, although you’ve got a pretty nasty contusion. Mind if I take a closer look?”
“Help yourself.” Adrian grunted as he leaned forward, and man, his body felt so much heavier than it had when he got out of bed this morning. Dr. Russell’s hands moved over his shoulder with purpose, sending ripples of pain toward Adrian’s sternum like shards of glass.
“I take it from the scar tissue you’ve sustained a dislocation in the past?”
“Twice.” Three times if you counted today, which Adrian didn’t.
Dr. Russell nodded. “So you know it can be sore for up to a few weeks.”
Adrian dropped back into place on the gurney, and the limb in question squalled in protest. “You said that’s the good news. What’s the bad news?”
“You have a clean break of your radius, which is one of the bones in the forearm.” The doctor flipped the printouts toward Adrian, pointing to the long bone on the thumb side of the X-ray. “It’s pretty straightforward as far as breaks go, although that doesn’t make it hurt less. It won’t require surgery, but I’m not going to lie to you. You’ve got a pretty long road to recovery ahead. May I ask what you do for a living?”
Adrian’s brow cranked in confusion. “I’m a chef.”
“I see. And is this your dominant side?”
Dread leaked through his chest, knotting things up as it went. “No.”
“Good.” The doc readjusted the stethoscope hooked around his neck. “That should make things a little easier for you as you take time off to recover.”
Oh hell no. “I don’t need time off. My left hand is fine.”
Dr. Russell pitched his voice to sympathy level, fixing Adrian with a patient look that told him nothing good would come from what the guy said. “Yes, but it’s attached to your arm, which isn’t fine. This break, in conjunction with the shoulder bruise, is going to have you in a sling for at least a week, and a cast that will include your thumb for six, maybe even eight. Your mobility will be seriously limited, and lifting anything, however light, is out of the question.”
The dread in Adrian’s chest morphed into panic. “Come on, Doc. People break bones all the time. Throw it in a cast and I’ll be good to go. I don’t need a sling.” Sure, a cast might slow him down on the line a little bit, but he’d manage. He couldn’t be idle.
He couldn’t be out of the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, but with the damage you’ve sustained today on top of your past shoulder injury, it’s really imperative to err on the side of caution if you want a full recovery.”
“So what are you saying?” Adrian’s throat threatened to close, but he forced the words out. “I can’t cook at all if I want this to get better?”
Dr. Russell shook his head. “We can reevaluate the shoulder in a week to possibly eliminate the sling, and the cast will allow some functional use of your fingers, although your thumb will definitely have to be immobilized for the bone in your forearm to properly heal. But the best way to avoid significant repercussions from this injury is to rest the arm completely during that time.”
The words hit Adrian like a delayed reaction, and he sank into the gurney as Dr. Russell finished.
“I’m afraid with the nature of your profession, six weeks would be the absolute minimum before you’ll be back in the kitchen.”
Chapter Five
Adrian leaned against the aging doorframe of his apartment, fumbling his keys twice before dropping them onto the threshold with a harsh metallic clatter.
Fire Me Up Page 4